One week. You’ve been out of jail for one week and you’re already fucking shit up. I knew it. This was part of the reason I didn’t want you out.
And no matter how mad I get at you, I hate how much I still like resting my head on your shoulder when we’re driving.
I’m having an extremely hard time today.
I slept for 11 hours, woke up to eat some breakfast, then went back to sleep for another two and a half hours. Only to get up and have a complete break down. Nothing fits me anymore. And I accidentally shrunk the one dress that looked cute on me.
I just don’t want to be at work and I don’t want to be dealing with people and bullshit right now.
I know the next few weeks are going to be even more difficult, but I’m ready for all of this to be over with.